


Let a Good Thing Go to Waste

by earthbourn



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthbourn/pseuds/earthbourn
Summary: A recovering chem addict with no romantic experience recruits a sentimental doctor who's been burned before. The Courier is tempted by his old ways, and Arcade struggles to connect with a man who's got something to hide.





	

There was something about the man that gave Slug the old itch, right from the moment they met. Maybe that wasn’t fair. But there was something so disarming about him, something so authentically bright and old-world, Slug wouldn’t have minded a little boost to make him seem smarter and maybe more charming.

“Arcade, huh? I’m called Slug,” he said, extending a cracked and dirt-encrusted hand.

“That’s a new one. What’s your real name?”

Slug hesitated. Out in the Mojave, nobody bothered with his name. “Madison. What’s  _ your _ real name?”

“Arcade  _ is _ my real name.” 

“Well, Arcade, they tell me you’re a doctor.” Slug leaned against one of the poles holding up the research tent. “I tend to get shot a lot...hence the name. I sure wouldn’t mind having a handsome doctor around to patch me up.”

And goddamn if that didn’t work, more or less. A bit of flattery, a bit of coaxing, and the doc appeared all too eager to leave the grimy research tent behind. Maybe Slug didn’t need the little red pill after all.

 

Arcade made a good match for Slug as far as traveling companions went. He was a decent shot with his plasma pistol, but he knew better than to rush into a firefight. And when Slug invariably did, Arcade was a passable combat medic. He bandaged Slug’s wounds with a steady hand and a steadier patience for the courier’s self-destructive tendencies.

“Just get me back out there,” Slug would say, offering his plasma-burned hand for treatment.

“I’ll be putting you back in the ground if you keep this up,” would be Arcade’s reply as he cleaned the wound with antiseptic and flicked the patch of shorter hair on Slug’s head where he’d been shot a couple months earlier.

They’d been traveling together for several weeks, and Slug wasn’t quite sure what to make of the arrangement. Normally he would have asked Arcade to fuck by then, but that usually led to going separate ways, and Slug wasn’t ready to see him go just yet. After all, his infection rates had never been this low. 

Besides, he could tell that wasn’t what the other man was looking for. Arcade said he wanted a guy to “sweep him off his feet,” and Slug was definitely not that guy. Arcade spoke Latin, for crissake--Slug kept track of his finances using tally marks.

The courier would say that you can’t teach an old slug new tricks (well, he was twenty-six), but he had to wonder what was in those old world books Arcade was always buried in. Why bother? What good would book learning do you when you were staring down an angry yao guai?

The doctor’s collection must have been on his mind when a charred book caught Slug’s eye while picking through the remains of a prewar army outpost. He shoved it in his pack and held onto it until he had a quiet moment at camp.  _ The Art of War _ , it was called. Maybe this, at least, would have some practical knowledge in it.

Slug had to scrape decades of grime off the cover to see the author’s name. “By Nick-olo Match-ee...Match-ee-uh…fuck it.” He opened to a random page and read:  _ Since the handling of arms is a beautiful spectacle, it is delightful to young men _ . Slug laughed. “Maybe this is a different kinda book than I thought.”

He flipped some pages and read on:  _ To persuade or dissuade a few from something, is very easy; for if words are not enough, you can use authority and force: but the difficulty is to take away a sinister idea from a multitude… _ He read slowly, mouthing the words to try and follow the thought. ... _ whether it may be in agreement or contrary to your own opinion, where only words can be used, which, if you want to persuade everyone, must be heard by everyone _ . Before long he was so bogged down in the words he hardly knew which way was up, and he grew more frustrated by the minute.

Why had he thought he could do this? He wasn’t some scholar. He was closer to the archetypal Freeside junkie Arcade had talked about, the one that would snort a ground-up cazador venom sac. Slug didn’t exactly get the old cravings anymore, not like the terrible itch at the back of his brain that interrupted all other thoughts. But it was times like these, when he just felt too fucking stupid to live, that he subconsciously rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, like he was rolling a chalky red pill between them right before popping it into his mouth.

He was about to throw the book down when an eager voice came from over his shoulder.

“What are you reading?” Arcade said, and took a seat on the ground beside Slug. He peered over at the book in Slug’s hands. “ _ The Art of War _ ? My first thought was Sun Tzu, of course, but I see it’s Machiavelli. May I?”

Slug handed it over, wondering how long it would take Arcade to find out he couldn’t actually understand it.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever read this one.” Arcade flipped through the yellowed pages a few at a time. “I didn’t know you were interested in this kind of thing.”

Slug grunted, neither a yes or a no, but Arcade didn’t seem to notice.

“Is it much like  _ The Prince _ ? I have to admit, Italian political theory isn’t my forte.”

Eventually, he was going to expect an answer. Slug had to put an end to it before he embarrassed himself. He yanked the book out of Arcade’s hands, and Arcade winced as the paper grazed his fingertip. A tiny drop of blood escaped the skin.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Slug took Arcade’s hand in his and wiped the blood off with his shirt. “We’re gonna have to find another doctor, somebody to patch  _ you _ up.”

Arcade laughed, but he didn’t pull his hand away. His skin was so soft. There were a few cuts and scrapes, the hallmarks of wasteland life, but it was still so goddamn  _ soft _ . Slug’s hands had never been like that.

Slug came back to himself for a moment and started to wonder how long he’d been sitting there, just holding Arcade’s hand. Arcade was watching him, paying no attention to the gnat crawling across his glasses or the new drop of blood pooling on his finger. Slug wiped away the blood again and brought Arcade’s finger to his lips, his mind blank of everything but the smooth skin against his parted mouth.

He looked back up at Arcade. Was that pink he saw at the tips of his ears? He dropped Arcade’s hand. “I’m--fuck.”

“It’s, um…”

Slug leapt up and dropped the book next to Arcade. “Keep it, I can’t understand it anyway.” He stalked off toward his tent.

 

Wiping out pockets of Powder Gangers wasn’t the most exciting of tasks, but it was almost always worth a pile of caps to somebody. And goddamn were they stupid. Almost made it too easy. Slug’s favorite method of ruining a Powder Ganger’s day was waiting to take the shot until they had a lit stick of dynamite cocked back for a throw. Watching them blow themselves up was certainly satisfying, if a little repetitive.

Slug was out with Arcade, wiping up a small gang that had holed up in a roadside convenience store. A wiry bald man, still in his prison blues, called out to them. “Eat this, NCR dogs!”

“You got it wrong,” Slug said, sighting down on the man with his lever-action rifle. “This is just death for profit.”

The scene unfolded in its proper order: a damp finger squeezing the trigger, a dull sound of bullet hitting bicep, and a waft of gunpowder as the last three Gangers bit the dust.

“Show-off.”

Slug turned to Arcade. “You love it. Anyway, that should wrap it up. Let’s see what they got on ‘em.” He was about to sling his gun back over his shoulder when he saw Arcade reach for his pistol.

He spun around, but Arcade was already dropping to the ground, a hand over his chest. One of the Powder Gangers, his leg nearly blown off, struggled to reload, .44 cartridges spilling from his trembling hands.

“You motherfucker.” Slug advanced on him and struck him across the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking him back down. The man raised his head, and Slug slammed the rifle down in the center of his forehead, leaving his skull caved in like a rotten melon. Slug stared for a moment, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. “Bastard.”

Fear took over anger and he rushed back to Arcade, kneeling beside him to inspect the wound. He pulled open Arcade’s medical coat as the red was spreading through it, over his shoulder and across his chest. He unbuttoned Arcade’s shirt and found the exact spot, on the left side, an inch below his collarbone. It didn’t look like the bullet had passed through. The air froze in Slug’s lungs and his vision started to swim. 

“Hey.” Arcade squeezed Slug’s arm with his right hand. “I need you to focus. I need your help.”

“What do I do?” Slug’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Get my medical bag. There should be at least one stimpak left.”

Slug retrieved the syringe and removed the glass protector from the needle. He checked the gauge to confirm there was a full dose left. He aimed the needle near the wound and stopped, his shaking hands making it difficult to keep his grip.

He felt the gentle pressure of Arcade’s hand on his arm again.

“Madison. It’s okay.” His voice was strained, but his expression was calm. “I’m not dying. How many times have I done this for you?”

Slug frowned. “Not that many.” He steadied himself and injected the medicine just above the entry wound. He moistened a clean cloth with antiseptic and swabbed the damaged area as gently as he could.

“Hey, you’re learning,” Arcade said, and closed his eyes for a moment as Slug used bandages to secure the cloth tightly over the bullet hole.

He offered Arcade the half-empty bottle of purified water from his pack and helped him sit up a little to drink it. He looked away as Arcade winced. “I knew we’d need somebody else to look after you,” he said.

“And that’s you?”

“No, it ain’t me. We’ll have to take you back to the Fort, get you some real help. And they’re not gonna like me when I bring their favorite doc back in this state.”

Arcade managed a smile. “If I was their favorite doc, they wouldn’t have sent me off with you in the first place.”

 

During the surgery and the three days that Arcade was tended to by his colleagues, Slug spent most of his time wandering Freeside. He’d made himself a “nuisance” at the Fort within hours, and Julie insisted that Arcade needed solitude to rest. The lights of the Tops and the Lucky 38 shone out over the landscape, but Slug was drawn to the dirty alleys and tumbledown buildings of Freeside. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was familiar. Wake up in the gutter enough times, he figured, and you sort of know them all.

They sort of knew him, too. He couldn’t go more than two or three blocks without someone trying to deal him psycho or jet.

“I ain’t no damn junkie,” he’d say, but if he wasn’t buying, neither were they.

One jet pusher, all skin and bones and patchy gray hair, walked next to him for a quarter mile. “I see your teeth,” he said. “I see the way you come looking round here. The fuck you think you’re fooling?”

He reached out a hand toward Slug’s shoulder, and Slug moved to shove him. Before he could make contact, the man had sidestepped and caught him in the side with an elbow. The old geezer was too fucking fast. He swept Slug’s legs out from under him and left him sprawled out on his stomach, coughing up dust. Slug got up and brushed himself off, his palms stinging and his ribs bruised, trying to decide between heading to the Fort or the Wrangler.

 

The road south the next day was a long and quiet one. Slug could tell Arcade wasn’t traveling as well as usual, but Arcade wouldn’t admit it. He declined Slug’s offers to stop for rest, insisting that he didn’t need any babying for a “flesh wound.” Slug, for his part, rebuffed Arcade’s attempts to draw him into conversation, and kept his gaze fixed on the ground, brows furrowed and jaw set.

“It’s a good thing my traveling partner isn’t given to moodiness or brooding,” Arcade said to the open air, leaning into his walking stick as they crested a hill. 

Slug didn’t look back at him. “It’s a good thing my traveling partner is in perfect health, and doesn’t need to rest or eat.”

Arcade shielded his eyes as he gazed off into the distance. “There’s definitely a structure there, about a mile and a half out. Maybe a rest stop or a trading post?”

“It’s a bar. The Blackeyed Brahmin. Been there a few times.”

“It sounds terrible. But you think I’m in need of a sticky barstool and some mystery meat, and I think you need some  _ bonum commune hominis _ , so let’s stop there.”

Once inside the Brahmin, Arcade picked out a table, while Slug headed right for the bar. A couple people were there already, just getting started on a long night. Slug slapped the counter as he sat down, and a burly bartender with burn scars across his face greeted him.

“Slug!” His scars crinkled upward as a smile lit his face. “Long time, darlin.’”

“Evening, Doug. I’ll have a whiskey,” Slug said. “And uh, a gin and tonic.”

Douglas leaned across the counter. “You wanna go upstairs? I can have Madeleine watch the bar.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hey, come on. You’ve been gone six months. What happened?”

Slug ran his tongue over his teeth. “Shit happened. Got shot in the head. Don’t want to talk about it. So just pour my drinks and leave me alone.”

Douglas put two glasses on the counter and filled them up, sloshing liquor over the sides. “Fifteen caps,” he said.

Slug fished out his pouch. “Funny, prices have gone up since the last time I sucked your dick.”

The bartender’s jaw clenched, and he seemed about to reply when Arcade slid onto a stool next to Slug.

“Are you going to introduce me?” Arcade asked, glancing at Douglas.

Douglas looked Arcade up and down. “Oh, now I get it.”

“You don’t know shit, Douglas.” Slug drained his glass. “Arcade, this is Doug. Just one of the wasteland’s many lonely bartenders.”

“You sure you’re supposed to be here?” Douglas asked Arcade. “With him?”

Slug took the gin and tonic Arcade hadn’t touched and threw it back. “Doug’s a fucking asshole. Good in bed, though.”

Arcade flushed slightly. “I’m not sure I should--”

Douglas poured Arcade another drink and handed it to him. “He’ll join you in a few.” He waited until Arcade had returned to his table. “Are you okay?”

Slug stared at the bar, tracing his fingernail through a long cut in the wood.

“Darlin’, I’m talking to you. Is this brain damage, or something else?”

Slug scratched harder at the wood. “I’m...I’m kind of fucked up.”

Douglas glanced around to make sure Madeleine, his sister and business partner, had the other customers taken care of. “Tell me about it.” 

“I can’t.”

“Listen, Slug.” He said the name halfway through a sigh and poured himself a mug of coffee from the fresh pot on the stove. He glanced across the room at Arcade. “He seems nice. Don’t put him through hell. Don’t fucking put yourself through that.”

“I know. I know.” Slug refused to say much after that, except to insist that Arcade try the “mystery meat,” which turned out to be gecko. When they left an hour later, Arcade felt more rested, but Slug was just as withdrawn as before.

At camp that night, Slug turned in with barely a word, leaving Arcade alone by the fire with a flickering lantern and  _ The Art of War _ .

Whatever cloud had been hanging over Slug the night before had blown over by morning, because he was up with the sun, frying corn cakes and boiling coffee.

Arcade staggered out of his tent, blinking in the gray light and running a hand through his tangled hair.

Slug tested a spoonful of corn cake and smiled at Arcade. “You look like an angel when you wake up,” he said, and Arcade’s eyes widened and blinked again.

Before he could respond, Slug had turned his attention back to breakfast, and was pouring the coffee into cups. He swore and almost dropped the pot when half of it ended up in his lap. “It’s the damn--the pot’s not shaped like--”

Arcade cut him off with a laugh and a shake of his head, and helped himself to some food. Slug gulped down his breakfast and got to work cleaning and checking his rifle. 

“What’s with the sudden interest in equipment maintenance?” Arcade asked, watching over the rim of his cup.

“Legion. They’ve been pushing north like they’ve got a fire under ‘em. Reckon we’ll be seeing their scouts before long. Maybe more than scouts.”

“More than scouts?”

“Met their dog-boy in Nipton. He asked me to carry a message, but I said I wasn’t that kind of courier. So they send messages for me every now and then.”

“What was it like...in Nipton?”

Slug put down his rifle and prodded the dying embers of the fire with his bootheel. “Torched. Screaming. I don’t much like to think about it.”

There was silence for a moment as Arcade poured out the last of his coffee and inspected his blaster.

“Just stick close by and we’ll cover each other,” Slug said. “They won’t get the jump on us, I promise.”

 

The Legion dogged the pair as they traveled southwest, but Slug’s word was good. The small bands that attacked them were efficient but not stealthy, and Slug always spotted them in time to rush for cover. After that, he was skilled enough at range to pick the Legionaries off before they could close in with their melee weapons. If he did his job right, he said, Arcade would never have to fire a shot.

They ambled across the desert with no final destination in mind, Arcade providing medical service and Slug providing messages and friendly interference. Maybe it was helping people; maybe it was just a selfish walk-the-wasteland tour. But it was peaceful, in spite of the assassins, in spite of the cazadores and irradiated sinkholes and thin supply lines. It was peaceful, and more than that.

One evening, just as the too-vibrant colors of radiation were fading from the skyline, they came across a small field littered with pre-war vehicles, broc flowers growing around and through the corroded metal shells. A wall stood at one end, bare wood showing through where most of the white paint had chipped off decades ago. It faced east, so that it cast a weak shadow over the field in the dying light, placing a kind of hush over the assembled husks of cars and trucks.

“What is this?” Slug asked.

“People used to watch movies here,” Arcade said. “They’d project it onto the wall, and you could see it from your car.”

Slug sat down on the hood of a car at the front. “Sounds boring.”

“Yeah, well, different time.” Arcade sat down next to him, his long legs stretched out among the flowers and patches of yellow grass. He rubbed the place under his collarbone where the bullet had hit. “Maybe it was boring. Maybe people didn’t come here for the movie, but just came to be with somebody. Not everything is different.”

Slug had been gazing up at the sky, but he turned his eyes to Arcade. “And what are you doing here?”

Arcade turned away from Slug’s stare. “I haven’t known what I’m doing for some time now. Historically, I’ve not been great at reading the signs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that nothing is certain, that a person can leave their home with a stranger because of a feeling that could be nerves or food poisoning, that you can travel with someone for weeks and still not know how to talk to them, that--” Arcade stopped when Slug’s hand rested on top of his own. “I mean,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “that I care about you, and I was hoping you feel the same way. Like I said, maybe I’m just projecting or delusional, but I think you must--”

“I think you’re thinking too much.” 

Slug slipped his hand around the back of Arcade’s neck and pulled him in, gently pressing their lips together. A little sigh escaped Arcade’s lips as he wrapped an arm around Slug and sunk into the kiss. Slug laughed as their teeth clicked together, his hand moving upward to hold onto Arcade’s curls.

Arcade kept his mouth locked with Slug’s as he drew back, making enough space between them to reach the buttons on Slug’s shirt. His quick fingers had just begun making their way down when Slug drew in a sharp breath and pulled away. 

Arcade let his hands fall by his sides. “What’s the matter?”

Slug put his face in his hands for a moment, then straightened up. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...I shouldn’t have--” He looked away and took off his glasses, wiping away an invisible spot with his coat.

“Look, it’s not your fault.” Slug made a fist, then stared at his open palm. “I shouldn’t have started this. It can’t happen, so let’s just forget it.” He slid off the hood of the car and picked up his pack.

“I’m sorry,” Arcade said again.

“Me too.”

 

They pushed west in the days ahead, and settlements grew scarce as they left the caravans’ biggest routes. The Legion presence had thinned as well, but the assassins hadn’t backed off, and Powder Gangers and local wildlife posed their own threats. Slug was constantly looking over his shoulder, even when they had shelter. He ate little, slept even less, and gripped his rifle with shaking hands. Arcade attempted to counsel him about the stress, but conversation had become difficult since the night at the drive-in. Slug was guarded and irritable, and Arcade was hesitant to push where he felt he’d already pushed too far.

The isolation of the area forced them to be cautious with their supplies. Acid rain kept them holed up in their tents in the mouth of a cave for several days, but Slug’s dwindling appetite helped to stretch their provisions. The confinement only made Slug’s mood worse, and by the third night under the thick shadow of the cliff, he seemed near his breaking point.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, kicking dirt on the fire.

Arcade stoked the fire with a stick and looked up at the sky. “I can’t imagine it’ll last much longer,” he said. “And we still have enough food to hold us until the next settlement.”

“But what if it never stops?”

Arcade reached a hand out toward Slug, but drew it back. “What’s really bothering you?”

“Nothing. I just can’t stay here. I think the radiation is making me sick.”

“We’re running low on Rad-X, but we’ve stayed pretty well dosed, all things considered. You think the rain is getting to you, after all the Nuka-Cola you drink?”

Slug grunted in response and returned to his tent. Arcade called after him about whether he needed more Rad-Away or purified water, but got no answer.

Slug didn’t emerge from his tent the next morning. By noon, the rain had begun to subside, but he still didn’t appear.

“You’d better be in there,” Arcade said to the silent tent. “I know I told you not to go out in the rain.” 

He lifted the flap to find Slug, shaking and sweating, curled in a ball next to a pool of vomit. Arcade grabbed his medical bag from his tent and helped Slug turn over onto his back. He soaked a rag with unfiltered water and used it cool Slug’s temples, neck, and wrists. Slug opened his eyes slightly.

“This isn’t radiation sickness,” Arcade said.

Slug couldn’t hold Arcade’s gaze. “Just leave me here. I deserve this.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. You’re lucky this happened sooner rather than later. And you shouldn’t have lied to me.”

“I’m good at hiding it. I could have kept on hiding it if I hadn’t run out.”

“Do you think this is a fucking game? Was I supposed to just pick up the pieces after you destroyed yourself with--” He pulled up Slug’s sleeve to reveal his forearm. “--what, jet?” Slug didn’t answer.

Arcade sighed. “What happened? I guessed that you’d had problems in the past, but I didn’t think you were using.”

“I wasn’t. I was clean for three years, until you--”

“What? What about me drove you to do this?”

“You got hurt. I was slow, and fucking careless. I thought if I could take something to make me quicker, make me sharper, it wouldn’t happen again.”

Arcade covered his face with his hands. “You idiot. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I know it was stupid. Doug tried to stop me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you, scared, lying in all that blood.” He squeezed his eyes shut to prevent tears from escaping. “I’m sorry.”

Arcade lifted Slug into a sitting position, ignoring the twinge near his shoulder, and pulled him into his arms. He held tight to Slug’s shaking form, noting how much lighter it was than the last time. 

Slug pressed his forehead into Arcade’s chest as his breaths grew long and ragged. “I hated pushing you away,” he said. “But I didn’t want you to see me like this. Didn’t want you to be with someone like this.”

“Maddie.” Slug’s breath caught at the name, and Arcade petted his hair. “I’m here. This is where I want to be.” His eyes strayed to the vomit on the ground. “Well, maybe not in here, exactly. Of course, now I realize I should have moved you already. I’m terrible with this patient care stuff.”

Slug tried to laugh, but ended up coughing. “Better than I’m used to.”

 

Arcade spent the day and night soothing and trying to mitigate Slug’s symptoms. The tremors were on and off but came often, and his fever lasted almost through the night. With no food in his stomach to throw up, he vomited bile twice. Every time Slug apologized or asked Arcade to get some rest, he was summarily shushed. Slug finally fell into a fitful sleep as morning approached. Arcade lied down next to Slug and wrapped his body around him as he shivered and sweated out the fever.

When midday came, they packed up camp. Slug was in bad shape to travel, but his appetite was returning with the edge of malnutrition, and they needed supplies. With the light load, they were still able to carry it between them. At first Slug had insisted on carrying half, but after a mile on the road, Arcade had to redistribute their packs.

“If we keep going north, we’ll pass through Goodsprings,” Slug said. “That’s where I got shot in the head.”

“I’m sure the locals still remember you fondly.”

“I could even show you my grave. Thinking of it, my hat’s probably still there.”

“Are you sure the guy who shot you over a poker chip didn’t take it with him?”

“All right, so you don’t want the tour.” Slug looked down at his loose-fitting clothes and examined a trembling hand. “It would be too embarrassing to go back there, anyway. I probably look worse than the night I got buried alive.”

“You look like a hundred miles of rough road,” Arcade said. He glanced up and down at Slug. “Or dirt path, even.”

“Only a hundred? You trying to flatter me?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m trying to make sure you let me come along for the next hundred.”

“I wouldn’t go anywhere without my gorgeous doctor.” Slug put his arm around Arcade’s shoulders and stood on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be around for as long as you can put up with me.”


End file.
